


Five Bloody Minutes

by viasoundwaves



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Work In Progress, Zombies, except not even because I haven't written anything I'm writing WRITE NOW ahaha puns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:27:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viasoundwaves/pseuds/viasoundwaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yes, it was the zombie apocalypse. No, that did not deter Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Five Minutes](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/13736) by *inklou on deviantART. 



> This is a work in progress, so if this isn't completed, don't click on the "inspired by" link... you'll regret it.

Of course it was Mycroft who had the bloody plan. Even before the news started filtering in, the sirens wailing, the panicked mobs running, Mycroft had a bloody plan.

Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, a nicotine patch discolouring the alabaster skin of his exposed forearm, muttering to himself about our most recent case. The rain beat against the windows, spelling out a calming rhythm. The kettle clicked off, telling me the water had boiled, so I went over to make myself some tea. I was just stirring the milk in when the doorbell rang.

Sherlock jerked out of his stupor and narrowed his eyes. I glanced over at him in concern.

“Mycroft?” he asked incredulously, brows furrowed. I relaxed. Mycroft was no source of concern. Well, perhaps to Sherlock’s sanity.

The door flew open, and there Mycroft stood, pale as a sheet, his hair in disarray. His umbrella was soaked, and had been poorly folded. One of the ribs was bent behind another.

“I’m afraid, dear brother,” Mycroft announced, his voice containing none of the strain his person betrayed, “That the project you scorned me for undertaking just last year is going to be your salvation.”

* * *

 “Let’s leave the compound.”

“We’re here for a reason, Sherlock.”

 “Samples! We need samples, John.”

“Sherlock, is it in any way possible for you to comprehend that there is a zombie apocalypse beginning right now, and it might be a tad safer to stay where they can’t get us?”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.”

“Sherlock. Zombies.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Yes! It means that there are creatures of the sodding undead out there, moaning for your brains, and that the most important thing right now is to stay put!”

“It’s for science!”

“NO.”

* * *

The man was insufferable, horrendously unaccommodating, and appallingly irritating: he was bored. Luckily for my own personal sanity, he didn’t have access to a gun. Unluckily for me, he did have access to a violin. Of course he couldn’t play something normal in this mood, not even a fast-paced violent tune one might play when simply frustrated.

Of course not.

No, he had to play like a man who’d never picked up a violin in his life, with screeches and howls and noises akin to nails scratching on a chalkboard. When Sherlock was suffering, everyone had to suffer with him.

* * *

Our rooms were bare, compared to the flat at Baker Street.  Bare even compared to what I might imagine a normal person’s home would look like.  Our suite came with two bedrooms (thankfully), one tiny bathroom, and a living area that also functioned as a kitchen and dining room. Everything seemed even smaller than it actually with Sherlock flying about like a madman, ranting about saliva and lividity and “goddamn Mycroft”

 I honestly wasn’t sure why he had even agreed to come along if all he was going to insist on was getting out again. At least he hadn’t brought his nicotine patches – not that he’d much time to pack before we left.

It had been terribly amusing to watch the way he’d packed. Once I’d organised the essentials into my luggage, I had carried it downstairs to see if Sherlock was ready, and had found him racing around the flat, snatching textbooks up and throwing them down again, snarling about diseases, and attempting to fit his microscope into his luggage.

I couldn’t suppress a chuckle at his manic behaviour, which only earned me a dark scowl from those pale, opalescent eyes. Something inside me choked at the heat contained within them, and I quickly redirected my attention to helping him pack. I managed to coax him into leaving behind the bulky microscope and bringing a few more practical things like toothpaste and pants and socks.

“Don’t you want to bring your skull?” I asked, glancing up at the mantle.

Sherlock gave me the “for a semi-intelligent person, John, you can be very obtuse” look.

“Why would I need him when I’ve got you?” he asked, injecting enough contempt at my question that my stomach didn’t even flutter.

Okay, not much.

* * *

Americans liked to solve problems by talking, working things out, maybe throwing a plate or two in extreme cases. Us Brits? We liked tea.

I suppose in that sense Sherlock was a bit more American than he was British, if one considered every case of his an extreme case. He’d rather destroy things in his frustration than settle down and brood over his cup of tea.

However, at the core, once he’d thrown his plates and slammed his doors, I guess he really was a Brit: he liked his tea. Not that he’d ever admit that he genuinely liked something.

So once he’d blown through his rage, I made us tea, and sat down beside him on the couch. A thin sheen of perspiration had settled over his face from all the time he had spent tearing around the flat like a three year old on crack, and I could see him thinking. About what, I wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, asking would not help. So I just sat there with him, and we drank our tea in silence.

Sherlock didn’t always have to be in motion. Sometimes he could just sit.

* * *

The closing of a latch was what awoke me. I snapped out of the drowsy terror-filled dreamscape my mind had been swimming in and was immediately awake. For a mere second I was disoriented, and then I remembered I had fallen asleep on the couch in the living area in case Sherlock needed me.

Of course, by the time I was properly awake and fully aware of the events of the last day, Sherlock was gone.

God _damn_ it.


	2. Chapter 2

I was out of the room as soon as I could shove my feet into shoes and my gun into the back of my jeans. At least I hadn’t fallen asleep in bed, dressed in my pajamas. That prick. How could he-

Okay, John, left or right? Instinct told me left, so left it was. It didn’t take long to catch up to him once I shook the sleep out of my brain and realized the most logical path (to him – leaving the compound wouldn’t be considered logical by most by a long shot) would be out the front door. Jesus, Sherlock.

He’d already made it through the first three checkpoints, and was in the process of wading through a fourth. Guards were strewn, haphazard, wherever he’d left them; computers were dismantled; systems were disarmed. He was in the process of making a right bloody mess.

Silently apologizing to the guards who were unconscious, I jogged gingerly through the chaos.

“Sherlock!”

He’d finished the fourth checkpoint, and it cheered me to see that he wasn’t just breaking everything in his path, but simply putting the systems to sleep until he could get through. The first checkpoint I’d gone through was already up again. I hesitated by a guard bent double by the fourth checkpoint, clutching the family jewels.

“Sorry, mate, I really need this. Hope it’s got a pair,” I say, grabbing his radio from his belt, and followed Sherlock into the crepuscular light.


End file.
